


A Perfect Circle

by rabidchild67



Series: Steal My Body Home [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Brain Surgery, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from Neal’s brain surgery and recovery. Another timestamp to "Steal My Body Home," which I suppose makes it a series now that there are three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfect Circle

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a song by REM.

Neal had a Zen-like feeling of calm from the moment he woke the morning of his surgery. It had settled on him the night before, feeling safe and loved in the bed he shared with Peter and Elizabeth, and lasted all the way until he was wheeled away to the operating room.

He wished the same could be said for his loved ones.

Every time he looked at Elizabeth, she was smiling at him. But it was not her usual cheery smile, or even his favorite one, the wry one. This one looked like it pained her, this one looked like it might make her face shatter.

Moz apparently couldn’t stand to be in the same room as him, choosing instead to remain in the hallway outside Neal's hospital room. Every once in a while, Neal caught a glimpse of some part of him – a hand or his belly – but he couldn’t so much as look into the room, much less at Neal. Neal understood and appreciated what it took for him to even be here.

Peter couldn’t look at him either, hadn’t really met his eye since before breakfast, though at least he was able to remain in the hospital room. His eyes were dark – introspective – and if Neal thought he was just lost in thought, it wouldn’t be much of a concern. But he knew what Peter was thinking, and it wasn’t a good thing. 

He reached out and hooked a finger in the lapel of Peter’s jacket, to pull him closer. “Stop it. Right now,” he said in a low voice that the others couldn’t hear. 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re thinking about what could go wrong today, imagining all the horrible things that might happen, and it’s torturing you. Stop it.”

“I –“ Peter said, clearly about to deny it, but Neal knew he’d nailed it. He wished he could be wrong. Peter sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, but I hate to think about you suffering while I’m in there.”

Peter finally looked at him, his eyes awash with guilt. “I don’t want you to worry – that’s the last thing I want!”

“Then stop it. Everything’s going to be fine.” Neal reached up and cupped the side of Peter’s face briefly. He smiled his best smile as Peter leaned into the caress. “And when I get out of there, you’re going to feel like a real asshole.”

Peter huffed a low laugh, but his eyes filled with tears and he had to look down again.

Minutes later, when the nurses came to shoo them all away, Regina was the last to go. She held Neal's head against her chest and petted his hair and kissed him on the head. “Don’t you worry about them, darling,” she said before releasing him. The look in her eyes promised she’d see all of them through this – Elizabeth, Mozzie, and Peter – and Neal was grateful. 

He didn’t know what would happen, but he knew that if this was it for him, at least the people who mattered the most to him would take care of each other.

\----

Peter watched as a person wearing surgical scrubs – he presumed it was a surgeon – approached the smaller group that was also waiting to hear news of their own loved one’s surgery. “Dickinson,” he thought their name was. El made friends with the woman that Peter assumed was the patient’s wife or girlfriend over by the coffee maker, but Peter had been too absorbed by his inner thoughts to have registered any of it earlier.

The surgeon had another, younger person in tow – Peter guessed she must be an intern. She began to address the Dickinson family, and though Peter couldn’t hear the words, their import was soon clear.

“No!” the young wife/girlfriend said once, sharply, holding up a finger as if she was correcting a child or a dog. The intern took a step back. The wife/girlfriend’s face crumpled at about the same rate as her entire body, and suddenly she was on her ass on the floor, her people hastening to care for her. She was sobbing, hyperventilating, she lost the ability to stand unassisted.

Peter was embarrassed to be a witness to this; he knew he should look away, but he couldn’t. When she glanced at him, the pain in her eyes was raw, alive, utterly all-consuming. Peter shook himself and left the room. 

El found him on the sidewalk outside, leaning against a planter with his hands in his pockets, staring at rush hour traffic. She slid her small hand into his pocket and it fit inside his palm perfectly. “You OK?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I tried, you know? For him? But I can’t do this, I can’t be all stoic and hopeful. All I can think about is that the absolute worst will happen, and he asked me not to, you know? Neal asked me not to obsess about it.”

He felt her hand curl around his in his pocket and he clutched at it. “It’s OK if you can’t. I won’t tell.” 

They stood leaning against each other for a few minutes more. “That poor woman,” Peter said at length, “just now? I can’t get her face out of my head, her voice. This is the worst day of her life.” 

El shuddered beside him. “I know.”

“She looked at me, in there, for a second, and she was just… so broken. And all I could think,” he paused to take a breath, “all I could think was, ‘better you than me.’” This last bit he basically spat out, because he began to cry, wracking, messy sobs, right there on the street. Before he knew it, he was in Elizabeth’s arms and she was petting his hair and telling him it would all be OK, but he just couldn’t believe her.

\----

Neal came to the conclusion that he watches too much television. 

On TV, whenever someone came around from surgery, three things always happened: 1.) their loved ones were clustered about them, to make them feel better; 2.) they always looked perfectly put together, if a bit wan; and 3.) they could suddenly converse like intelligent humans.

The first thing Neal did upon waking was dry heave until he thought he might actually turn inside out. The second thing he did was begin to weep like an absolute baby and for no apparent reason. Sure, he was _still alive_ , and he was certain he felt pretty enthusiastic about that, but that didn’t do anything to make him stop. Luckily, he soon passed out again.

The next time he woke up, he thought he was alone and made a small noise. 

“There he is!” a cheery voice said, and a person materialized from somewhere out of sight; he recognized her as one of the young interns on his case, and she was marking things on his chart and checking his monitoring equipment. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I swallowed a fistful of glass,” he rasped. 

“That’ll be from the ventilator. Can you tell me your name?”

“Neal.” She looked at him with an expectant look on her face. “Neal George Caffrey – is that enough detail?”

She beamed.

“You always this chipper?”

“I am when I get to assist on an experimental procedure!” she told him.

“Yay you.”

She next shone a penlight in his eyes and he grumped in protest. She just smiled. “Equal and responsive,” she told him and marked it down, then made him follow her finger with his eyes. Finally, she moved to the foot of the bed and pulled the covers back, running a pen up and down the bottom of each foot. He twitched – it tickled – but that wasn’t what made him say, “Aw, what the hell are THOSE!?”

“The socks? The nurses put them on the patients in the OR – it can get cold in there.”

“They’re fuzzy,” he protested. And pink. And knee-high. He looked like a Catholic school girl from the knees down.

“But warm!” she pointed out, grabbing each foot and asking him to push against her. “Good!” she praised him and did the same with his arms and hands.

By the time she was done, he was exhausted. 

“You did really well, Mr. Caffrey. We’ll be moving you out of recovery and into the ICU soon – did you want to send a message to your family?”

 _His family!_ All his grumpiness was set aside when he realized he’d nearly forgotten about the people he loved. “Yes! Tell them…” He blinked, the exhaustion that had been pulling at him suddenly more than he could deal with effectively. “Tell them I…” He drifted off for a moment, then forced his eyes open. “Tell ‘em… zzzzz…” 

\----

“He said to say he loves you all and he looks forward to seeing you in a little bit.”

Elizabeth couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear at the young intern. “We can see him soon?”

The doctor nodded. “When he’s been moved out of recovery, yes, though only two of you, and for a short while.”

El hugged Regina and Moz in turn, then turned to face Peter. “Oh, honey, isn’t that wonderful?” But Peter had a stony look on his face, and she could see the muscles bunching along his jaw. “Honey?”

He didn’t seem to be able to look at her. “Peter?” He just shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ceiling. 

“Which of you will want to go and see him?” the doctor asked expectantly.

El piped up before anyone else had a chance. “Regina and Peter.”

\----

“He’s awake!” Peter announced to Elizabeth and Moz the second he emerged from the ICU with tears streaming down his cheeks. “He’s awake, and he’s beautiful, and he’s awake!”

Elizabeth rose and went to Peter, who threw his arms around her, picked her up, and swung her around in a circle. She couldn’t help but laugh.

“He’s awake!” Peter enthused, setting her down, and then he kissed her, long and deep, and she could feel the relief and happiness pouring out of him.

“Whoo!” she said when he let her go, though he kept his hands on her upper arms and squeezed them joyously. 

“I don’t know what you all were so worried about – he’s gonna be just fine!” Peter pronounced, and El would have kicked him in the shins except that he danced away from her to shake Moz’s hand.

\----

“Hey,” Elizabeth said as she entered Neal's room in the ICU during one of the abbreviated visitation windows the hospital allowed the following day. 

He opened his eyes briefly to acknowledge her, but then screwed them up tight again, attempting a smile with his mouth that he knew looked more like a grimace.

“What’s wrong?”

He didn’t trust himself to talk much. “Nauseous,” he said through gritted teeth. He’d been warned about this by his doctor as a post-op possibility, but he had been utterly unprepared for the severity of it as well as the attendant dizziness.

“Oh!” Elizabeth cooed, and he could feel her getting nearer to his bed, but didn’t dare to open his eyes again. “Isn’t there anything they can do?”

“They gave me something, but –“ he took a deep breath.

“Hasn’t kicked in yet?” she guessed.

He shook his head slightly so that he wouldn’t have to speak, but that was a mistake; soon he was doubled over and retching into the basin the nurse had provided earlier.

“Oh! Oh, honey,” Elizabeth was saying soothingly. He was aware of her small hands fluttering about him, resting on his back briefly, then his neck, but he flinched away when she made contact. He was feeling so sick, any sort of contact was too much for his senses. She made a small frustrated sound. “Neal, all I want to do is hug you and hold you, but I’m afraid I’m hurting you!” 

He settled back against his pillows with a low moan as the pain in his head began to throb again. “I’m sorry,” he said, because he really was sorry she couldn’t do this for him – and he really wanted it.

“Oh, don’t be silly, what are you apologizing for?” 

He may have moaned again. 

She expelled a frustrated breath and he felt her hand on the top of his foot. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Well, then, it’ll have to do.” 

He fell asleep several minutes later when the antiemetic kicked in, with the sensation of her warm hand squeezing his foot soothingly.

\----

“Can you make it up the stairs?” Peter asked, even though he kept a hand at Neal’s back and one on his arm as they slowly made it up the stairs to the Burkes’ front door.

“You want to take a nap?” El asked, even though Neal was already ensconced on the living room couch and his eyes were drooping shut.

“Had enough to eat?” Regina asked him later, even as he was falling asleep in his soup.

“Ready to kill anyone yet?” Moz asked wryly, dealing out a hand of gin rummy between them.

“You’ve no idea,” Neal told him conspiratorially. “But it’s still nice to be fussed over.”

\----

Neal stood in the Burke’s small bathroom and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked tired and pale, too thin even to himself, and due to the incision on his scalp with all the stitches sticking out of it, a bit like Frankenstein’s monster. He reached up and ruefully ran a hand over his hair where it _hadn’t_ been shaved away and sighed – at least that was something he could do something about. He reached for his clippers.

“What are you doing?”

He glanced up in the mirror into Peter’s eyes. “What do you think? I look ridiculous. It all has to go.”

“What? No! Wait.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “I can’t go out in public like this. I look like Riff Raff’s sickly brother.”

“Riff Raff’s _sexy_ brother,” Peter said, trying gamely and pointing at him.

“No,” Neal replied, and switched on the clippers. 

Peter snatched the clippers from his hand and switched them off. “Hey – come on, no. Think about this.”

“I have thought about this – it’s got to be better to start over than to wait for it all to grow out, Peter, come on.”

“But… it’s so…”

“What? Fatalistic? Real? What?”

“Pretty.”

_“What?”_

“Your hair – it’s pretty. I like it. It’s _you_.”

“I’m me without the hair too.”

“I know, but it’s just, you know…” Peter’s voice faded out, becoming small.

“What?” Neal asked him kindly.

“It’s so thick and _good_ , Neal. You don’t know what a good thing you’ve got going.” He ran a hand through his own, shorter, finer-textured hair.

“It’s just hair, Peter. It grows back.” 

Peter muttered something.

“What?”

“You don’t have to look at you.”

That’s when Neal started laughing. “Are you more attached to my hair than me, Peter?”

“Only in a shallow, emotional way.”

Neal laughed some more, but Peter reached up and fondled Neal’s forelock, the part that always drooped into his eyes when his hair got too long. “You can keep a lock of it if you like,” he said.

“Can I?”

Neal was touched at his concern, and leaned in to give him a kiss. “Yes.”

“You want some help with the clippers?” Peter asked a moment later. “It’ll be easier if I do it, then you don’t have to worry about hitting your scar?” 

“Thank you, that would be great.” He sat down on the toilet and Peter draped a towel around his shoulders.

\----

“Man, he sleeps a lot.”

“The poor thing, he still needs the pain killers,” Elizabeth cooed from her seat beside Neal on the couch, covering him with the throw blanket. Neal was recovering well, but still tired easily; he had just had his stitches out that day, and their celebratory dinner had turned into eating it in front of the TV, but Neal had quickly fallen asleep. 

“He’s really cute like that, though,” Peter observed with a whisper, sliding off the couch and walking over to Neal on his knees. He traced a finger over Neal’s eyebrow.

“Peter!” El hissed, batting his hand away; he sat back on his feet.

“What? He’s all drowsy and floppy, with the big eyes. He’s like a great big puppy.”

“Well, if you look after him and take him for walks, I promise you can keep him.”

“I would like to keep him.” 

El laughed.

“No, hon, I’m serious. What if we made this permanent? Us, I mean?” He made a hand gesture that encompassed the three of them.

She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “You mean like some sort of commitment ceremony? Huh.” 

“We talked about it the other week, but I think he thought I was joking. What do you think, El? Does this marriage have room for one more?”

She looked up at Peter and saw the earnestness in his eyes, then she looked down at Neal’s pale, unlined face and realized two things: she didn’t know she needed this until now, and why hadn’t _she_ thought of it? Peter really could surprise her from time to time.

“You think he’d go for it?” she asked.

“I know his mother would,” Peter said.

“Well, we should maybe ask him, but I would love it.”

“Aww,” Peter cooed and leaned forward to give her a kiss. They got to their feet, and Peter straightened Neal’s legs out on the couch so he was lying in a more comfortable position. A moment later, they stood and put their arms around each other, looking down on Neal’s sleeping face. 

“If he knew how cute he was like this, he could totally own us,” El pointed out.

Peter huffed a laugh and then led her up the stairs.

“I already do,” Neal murmured a moment later, and then snuggled down into the couch.

\----

Thank you for your time.


End file.
